Abby Road (10 page)

That little jab made me smile. “Low blow, Max.”

He chuckled. “All right, babe. Go crash on the beach or paint your nails or whatever it is you do to kick back. But I’m calling you tomorrow to discuss something else, so keep your damn phone with you.”

“Okay, I promise.”

We hung up a few minutes later after he, again, reviewed what had happened, what could happen, and what
would
happen if I didn’t return in better mental shape. His final statement was, “Do you hear what I’m saying?” This was kind of a joke to me because what Max actually meant was this: “Do you hear what I’m
not
saying? Read my mind.” Over the past year or so, he had become an impossible riddle that I stopped trying to solve. Sometimes it was better to just shut up and obey.

I stared down at my cell, flipping it over and over in my hands, wishing I hadn’t brought it along this morning. Wishing a lot of things. That phone call had been exhausting. Even though I wasn’t at work, talking to Max made me feel tense, like I
was
at work.

When I looked up, I noticed a car slowing down. My muscles locked even tighter. If the paparazzi found me here, I had nowhere to hide.

The car stopped just past me and then thankfully continued after only a few camera flashes sparked from an open window. I watched it drive away, realizing that the occupants were simply taking pictures of the Gulf behind me.

Even still, my tense muscles wouldn’t relax. I wanted the world to go away. I wanted to run and hide somewhere private and safe, somewhere magical, like inside the peaceful hues of a landscape painting, or maybe inside the serene melody of a song I loved. Paul McCartney’s lulling “Golden Slumbers”
was my personal favorite for times like that, times to hide. Christian had known how to calm me down. Sometimes it took only a look from him or a few words.

But I was on my own now.

I sank to the sidewalk, leaned back against a tree, pulled in my knees, and tucked my chin, ball cap over my eyes. I probably looked like a
señorita
catching a morning siesta.

Because of that phone conversation, my mind turned to David, my last “distracting” dating experience with someone outside the business. The time had never seemed right for me to be in a real relationship with a real person. Other than that idiot Miles, who Max probably had a man-crush on, my manager had never appreciated my having a boyfriend at all. He said it didn’t fit my image. It escaped me how my personal life had anything to do with my professional image.

Max definitely would have vetoed my spending a day alone with Todd. Maybe he was right.

My knees cracked when I stood up. As I brushed bits of sand off the back of my shorts, I wondered if perhaps it might be better if I sneaked back to my bike and pedaled out of this guy’s life forever.
Better for him,
I thought, trying to ignore the squeeze of disappointment in my chest,
and better for me.

Before those thoughts had time to leave my mind, Todd came up from behind me, slightly winded and holding something behind his back. “You forgot this.” In his hand was the pretty straw hat I’d admired at his store.

The noonday sun shone down on him like a spotlight, but not the kind I was used to living under. Todd looked warm and glowing and completely buoyant. That unpleasant squeeze inside of me released like an unclenching fist.

After I put on the hat and adjusted it properly, he tilted his head. “Pretty cute,” he observed. “I’m beginning to see what all the fuss is about.”

{chapter 7}

“IT’S GETTING BETTER”

“W
hy does this house have a name?” I asked.

Todd and I were stopped in front of a tin-roofed cottage the exact color of a Creamsicle, peachy pink with white trim. Nailed to the picket fence was a white sign with loopy blue script.

“Most of the homes in Seaside have names,” Todd answered. He hefted our bag of lunch over his shoulder as we looked at a house called Wandering Thoughts. “I believe it began as a throwback to antebellum plantations. There’s a book about it; I’ve got a copy at home. You’re welcome to borrow it if you’d like.”

Something about his offer made me feel very normal. And very good.

The neighborhood we were strolling through had no traditional front lawns, just different types of gardens. The front garden of Wandering Thoughts consisted of yaupons with red berries, purple beautyberry bushes, and woody goldenrods, like a tangled jungle of summer colors.

At first glance, the charming houses appeared identical, like each was a scoop of rainbow sherbet in a never-ending glass dish of ice cream. Todd explained the same developer had built them all.

“Where do you live?” I asked as I leaned against the fence, running one finger across the name plate.

“Here, in Seaside.”

“In this neighborhood?”

He shook his head. “Way too touristic.” He reached up, picking at the fan-like leaf of a coco palm hanging above his head. “They’re picturesque little cottages, but . . .” Something a bit darker crossed his face, an expression I couldn’t read and hadn’t expected. His gaze moved past the tops of the tin roofs toward another neighborhood. “When it came time for me to buy, I wanted something completely my own, away from all of that. Something real.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. My tone automatically morphed into serious to match his. “I have a house, too, in Malibu. I bought it four years ago. Actually I was twenty when I bought it, so it’s under my brother’s name.” The thought made me laugh, though I didn’t know why. “It’s pretty lacking in furniture right now. Everyone keeps telling me to hire a decorator because I never have time. It’s just sitting there, basically empty.” I moved my hand up to my hair, knotting a strand around one finger, a nervous habit. “It didn’t used to be empty. My brother and I, we lived there together, before he . . . he—”

I stopped short, surprised that I’d just disclosed so much to a stranger, almost without meaning to. I was lost for a moment, unable to block out images of Christian the last time I saw him. And before I knew it, mental anguish crashed over me like a tidal wave. I had to grab hold of the fence for a moment. When I looked at Todd, his brows had pulled together. For a second I wondered if he also had been thinking about what happened last year. Or if he even knew.

Of course he knows.
My thoughts fired back.
Everyone knows the story.

“Why don’t you hire a decorator, then?” he asked, his expression still puzzled.

I echoed his words back to him. “Something real. Something completely my own.” I forced out a long exhale. “And I want to do it myself. I think I’d be good at it. Someday.”

Just then, we both turned to see a black convertible backing out of the driveway of Wandering Thoughts. The man behind the wheel leaned out his open window, probably to query as to why we were loitering around his front yard. The woman in the passenger seat lifted her sunglasses, took one look at me, and said something to the driver. The car sat idling in the middle of the street.

And let the staring begin.

“Does your house have a name like these do?” I asked Todd, trying to jerk his attention away from our audience.

“Yes,” he answered, his focus stuck on the black convertible’s taillights when it finally drove away. He cracked a smile, turning his attention back to me. “But it’s hideously kitschy. It came with the house, and I haven’t gotten around to officially changing it yet.”

He pulled my Dodgers cap from our bag of food. “Mind if I wear this?” he asked, sliding it on his head. The bright blue made the color of his green eyes pop. “Once I’m inspired, I’ll change the name of my house to something more rock ’n roll. Something like Fly Me to the Moon or Summer Wind.”

“
Very
rock and roll,” I teased, arching one eyebrow. “You’re a big Sinatra fan, I take it?”

Todd grinned and ran his fingers under his chin.

I couldn’t think of another jab, so I dropped the subject.

A few minutes later, we crossed the street, heading south toward the water. Leaving the main road, we ventured onto a dirt footpath that ran through a shady, wooded neighborhood. I could make out a few houses here and there tucked back in the little wilderness. Sounds of children splashing in swimming pools and dogs barking floated through the thick, protective oaks and tall golden fronds of pampas grass. I picked a few flowers and threaded the stems through my hat. A little farther on, the trees cleared and we were in a new neighborhood right across from the beach.

Because I’d lagged behind, Todd stopped and turned. I quickly removed my attention from his exceptional butt.

“Am I too fast for you?” he asked.

I cleared my throat and caught up.

“We’re trespassing now,” he added, “so shhhh.”

“What?”

He held one finger over his lips.

“Oh,” I mouthed, then followed behind him as we quietly crept along the side of a white house called Cherry Pie Place. All the shades were drawn, with no cars in the driveway. I hoped the owners were gone and wouldn’t catch us sneaking through their property. As we passed by the back yard, a black lab padded toward the fence. Despite myself, I shrieked before having the sense to cover my mouth with both hands.

“Stay close,” Todd whispered over his shoulder. “Here.” He reached back.

I exhaled, more than grateful to take his hand.

After weaving our way through a maze of tall shrubbery and brittle scrub oak in a side yard, we finally made it to the base of the boardwalk. We passed the public shower off to the left of the path and then climbed the wooden-plank stairs up and over the tall dune that separated the houses from the beach.

At the top of the platform, Todd suddenly crouched into a squat. “
Down
.” He whispered the order like a drill sergeant. I dropped to my knees beside him, knowing we were attempting stealth.

When we started down the stairs—still in a crouch—I caught my first glimpse of the view. This particular beach had big, sun-bleached boulders speckled along the shoreline, jetting out into the blue water. I could see for miles and miles down the beach, out to the water, up the shoreline. Really cool. To our left, east of the beach, stood a cluster of high-rise condos and other manmade developments. No one was swimming in the water, but I could make out a few white sails on the blue horizon. If I’d been back in one of my college painting classes, I would have replicated that view, favoring a delicate rainbow of watercolors—no messy, overstated oils here—with a subtle, upsweeping of brushstrokes to emphasize the pearly beach and green-blue Gulf.

At the foot of the stairs, I pulled to a stop, wanting to take in the moment fully. I peeled off my hat and let the refreshing wind dance through my hair. With my eyes closed, I inhaled a few slow breaths, body and soul feeling in harmony with the world for the first time in quite a while.

“This reminds me of a Monet,” I whispered, my voice blending with the wind and waves. “The one with the water lilies. I’ve always wanted to dive into that painting and just kind of . . .” I sighed tranquilly. “Float away.”

When I opened my eyes, Todd was looking at me, seeming a little lost in his thoughts, too, but then he cleared his throat and dropped my hand. I had
not
forgotten he was holding it.

“On a clear day,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him as he looked toward the edge of the horizon, “you can see all the way to the South Pole.” He made his way down to the boardwalk that led out to the beach and then to the sea. “You can leave your shoes here,” he said, sitting down and kicking off his Locals.

But I felt pained, and my hand kind of stung from the way he dropped it. I bit my lip, wishing for a moment that I was plain old Abby Kelly from Arizona and not some untouchable celebrity.

When I looked down at Todd sitting cross-legged, wearing my baseball cap low over his eyes, my heart warmed. He was just about the most adorable creature I’d ever beheld. I knew then that it was up to me. If I wanted to have any kind of normal day with him, I was going to have to chill out and resist my natural urges to mistrust or act like a babbling idiot.

I plastered a smile on my face and joined him on the end of the boardwalk, unfastening my sandals that laced up and around my ankles. “The sand looks like sugar,” I said, deciding that it was my turn to point out interesting observations.

Todd hopped to his feet. “It does,” he agreed, taking a step onto the beach, “but it gets wicked hot. And watch out for sharp rocks.”

I hot-footed it behind him as he led us to a mini Stonehenge circle of rocks a few feet from the shore. He sat down, his back against one of the rocks. I did the same.

“Where were you born?” I asked, deciding to veer away from my earlier plan of innocuous chitchat. This was my attempt to nonchalantly pry for personal information. Much more fun.

“Highland Falls, New York,” he answered.

“Was it a nice place to live?”